


In the Empress Hotel

by hal_incandenza



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Angst, F/M, Insomnia, Oneshot, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Unrequited Love, hell yeah, it's the only-one-room-left-in-the-hotel fic, plus a long-overdue heart to heart convo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 05:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7922596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hal_incandenza/pseuds/hal_incandenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I won't tell you which one of us asked for separate rooms.</p><p>(What could have happened behind the scenes in episode 206, if the hotel was booked up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Empress Hotel

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this fic sort of just... happened. I love TBTP and I love Alex and Strand but there was a major lack of communication in season two. This is to make up for that. 
> 
> Dedicated to my dear Haley. you're the best <3

_I won’t tell you which one of us asked for separate rooms._

“I’m sorry, but, we don’t have another room available.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry sir, but it’s a busy time of year. You booked your room over a month ago, as did this couple. We happen to have two rooms because of a cancellation... But we do not have three rooms.”

Strand stared at the concierge, his fingers drumming on the counter. It was always something, wasn’t it? And how much was the far-reaching strings of this conspiracy, and how much was human error? A few months ago he would have said all human error. Now, he wasn’t as sure. He wasn’t sure he believed this Quebecois couple was who they said they were, and he wasn’t sure someone else wasn’t in that room right now, destroying the evidence.

And now, on top of this, Alex—he didn’t dare look over at her. Why had she come to Victoria? Why was she staying? Was she thinking what he was thinking—that this was more obfuscation to keep them away from Coralee?

(Was she thinking about something else?)

“I can offer you one room, on us, but I’m afraid I simply can’t offer two. We would, it’s just...”

The concierge, Strand realized, looked quite alarmed. His eyes were probably burning a hole in the man’s face. Strand shook himself.

“It’s... fine,” Alex said to his shoulder. “I can find another hotel.” Strand heard her voice turn from him to the concierge. “Do you have any recommendations in the area?”

“No—Alex,” Strand said, venturing a glance at her. She looked up in surprise, but he looked away again, back at the desk, before their eyes could meet. “It’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” she said.

Strand sighed out his nose.

"Strand?"

 _You can’t avoid her forever_. 

He looked over at Alex. “I mean, it’s fine, we can... share the room. If you don’t mind.”

“ _You_ don’t mind?” she said.

Strand’s throat constricted around the words. He shook his head. “I don’t mind.”

She turned towards him then, her whole body, leaning her side against the hotel counter. “Dr. Strand, are you sure? This is...”

“It’s personal,” Strand finished for her. He nodded. “But I think your comfort is more important than my nostalgia.”

She stared up at him for a long moment. Strand actually wasn’t sure how long—lost in her gaze again, despite his best efforts. Sharing a room with Alex... a room with one bed. He snapped the thought shut.

Alex turned back to the concierge.

“We’ll take it,” she said.

* * *

Ever since Strand’s three-month absence, things between them had been different. In some ways, more in-sync—their quests were finally aligned (the conspiracy)—but in other ways, more strained and distant. Strand knew they weren’t communicating on an interpersonal level, and that if something was wrong with one, the other might not know until it was too late. As it was, Alex had barely caught him before he went into this hotel. And on top of that, despite his protests and intentional self-distancing, Alex continued to investigate his past. 

It occurred to Strand, staring out the window in their room, that maybe his distancing was the reason for her redoubled determination. Maybe he could just... tell her. About Bobby. About the fifth day.

It wasn’t the first time he had thought about coming clean. But he wouldn’t do it, he knew. It had been a long time since Strand had been close enough with anyone to... confess, like that. A very long time. And every time he considered it, it was like the door shut and locked. The information did not want to be shared. And Strand had long since grown comfortable in solitude.

“Should we... go get dinner?”

Alex’s voice came from near the door—Strand turned. She was hovering near the door, almost as far from him as she could be while still inside the room. He pulled his hands out of his pockets.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” she admitted.

“Then let’s go,” he said.

They ate in the hotel lounge. The food was adequate but overpriced, and the conversation was stiff.

That was another thing about their relationship since Strand’s return—perhaps the thing he regretted the most. Their capacity for small talk, for banter and pleasant conversation, had evaporated.

“So...” said Alex, reviving the conversation after yet another long pause. “Have you... heard from your sister?”

Strand chewed slowly.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m just wondering,” Alex replied, shifting in her seat.

Strand set down his fork. “Are you recording this?”

“No,” said Alex, frowning. “Why? Should I be? Did Cheryl tell you something?”

“No,” Strand said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “But maybe you should be recording.”

“Did Cheryl tell you something, Dr. Strand?”

“No, no, I haven’t heard from my sister,” Strand said. “But isn’t that why you’re asking? For a recording?”

“I... wasn’t planning to include our dinner in the show,” Alex said, her eyebrows knitting.

“But don’t you think it’s... unprofessional?”

“Don’t I think what’s unprofessional?”

“Having... having dinner,” he said. “In a personal capacity. With your colleague.”

Alex set down her fork.

“Dr. Strand, we’ve eaten together more times than I can count,” said Alex. “And I haven’t included most of those meals in the podcast.”

Strand’s fingers dug into his arm. This was a mistake. Trying to say what he really meant—it never worked. He shouldn’t have bothered. He shouldn’t have let them be put in the same room. He should have insisted on going someplace else—this was so unprofessional, and on top of it all he—

“What are you worrying about?” Alex said.

 _Of course she knew something was up._ “I...”

Alex raised her eyebrows, her head tilting up a tiny angle. Her face aligning with his like a satellite reorienting. He could not tell her.

“Dr. Strand?” Alex’s mouth twisted a little bit. “Is it the room sharing?”

“It’s not the room sharing,” Strand lied. He pivoted. “It’s this. It... it just doesn’t work,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“What doesn’t work?”

He lifted a hand to gesture between them.

“This,” he said. “Alex, we used to have... conversations. _Actual_ conversations. Now it’s just interviews and questions and silence. The podcast, the mysteries, they’ve... taken over. I just don’t see any point in carrying on like this, acting like we have some kind of... like we have some kind of relationship outside the show. You should just start recording, and ask your questions.”

He didn’t mean it as an accusation, or as a rejection, and he could see that she understood that. He meant it as an evaluation of their current state, of the distance between them that neither, not even Alex with all her compassionate understanding, seemed able to bridge.

“I’m not going to record this, Richard,” she said. “I’m genuinely interested in... what you have going on in your life.”

“You know what’s going on in my life,” he said.

“I don’t mean all that,” Alex said. “I mean, how are you? How are you really?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

Alex looked at him.

“I’m not asking for the audience’s benefit,” she said. She shifted in her chair and clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m asking for mine.”

It wasn’t a question. Strand glanced around the room. Thoughts about spies and conspirators and the patrons at the tables around them—he brushed them away.

“I’m... handling everything,” he said. Alex opened her mouth to disagree, but he held up his hand and continued. “I wasn’t, until recently. Not until I moved from Chicago. I don’t like my father’s house, but I do like Seattle. I like being in Seattle. And I like having something to do—painting, renovating. Something not...”

“Spooky.”

“Dangerous.”

“Something normal.”

Strand nodded.

“I haven’t been writing,” he said, “Not since, well... Not since we started working together. I suppose I missed the creative outlet. Clawing my way through a conspiracy is... unsatisfying. You’re an investigative reporter, maybe it’s satisfying for you. But I’m a writer, and I like finishing things. At the end of the day, I like looking back and seeing I’ve created something. Painting a room isn’t the same as finishing an essay, but it’s... it’s something.”

Alex was nodding. Strand nodded stiffly and looked down. Sharing this—his feelings, even such inane ones—it was so uncomfortable. Even if they were his genuine feelings. It felt like an imposition to make someone else listen.

“Well, that’s good,” Alex said. “You’re not quite right about one thing, though.”

“What's that?”

“I am an investigative reporter, but this is by far the _least_ satisfying story I’ve ever worked on.”

“I can imagine.”

“Oh, I don’t think you can,” Alex said, smiling humorlessly. “You said you’re a writer because you like seeing something finished. And I understand that, like, with editing and completing an episode. It’s a good feeling. But for me, it’s not the driving force.”

“What is the driving force?”

Alex lifted her napkin onto the table, clutching it in her fist.

“I just have to know,” she said. “I just _have_ to.”

Strand frowned.

“I don’t think it’s rational,” she said. “But I’ve always had it, about every story I’ve ever worked on. This one is the worst by far. And sometimes, I think about slowing down—just, abstractly, I think about it. But it never even comes close to actual consideration. I can’t imagine giving up. I just... can’t. I feel the distance between myself and the answers, and I just...” She looked at him. “I just have to close that gap.”

Strand was nodding, but his stomach thrummed with apprehension. Some of those answers were answers he wanted too—desperately—but others were answers he had. Answers about himself. 

“And I guess that’s finally taking its toll,” Alex said, sighing and looking away.

“Your vacation,” Strand said.

She looked at him.

“It didn’t help.”

Alex didn’t answer.

Strand sighed, and, staring at her—her soft brown eyes, her resolute chin, her small scatter of sun-damage freckles—felt himself realize, for a second, how similar they were. Neither of them would prioritize their well-being over their work. And neither of them wanted to admit or explain what they were going through. It seemed neither of them _could._

“So,” Alex said, after a silent moment. “Still think we never talk anymore?”

Strand smiled wryly. Perhaps his first smile all day.

“It’s getting late,” Alex was saying, turning to look for the server. “We should get upstairs.” She spotted their waitress and waved at her. That was when it truly dawned on Strand. What his mind had deftly avoided thinking about.

They had to sleep in the same bed.

* * *

Richard Strand was practiced at keeping his imagination in check. But as they rode the elevator up, jammed in with ten other people, all the scenarios and possibilities—for awkwardness, argument, or for... something else—seemed to shriek and thump behind the door he kept so tightly shut. His heartbeat slowly but steadily increased as they rose, floor after floor, in the uncomfortable hush of the elevator strangers and the ding-swoosh of the doors as they opened, closed again, left the elevator emptier, and emptier, until at last, it was just the two of them, and Strand thought he might have his first asthma attack in thirty-six years.

Alex was rocking back from her heels to the balls of her feet, her hands clasped behind her back. She  faced away from him—all the honesty that had just gushed out of them seemed to have frozen into a thin ice, so thin that it might break if they even looked at each other. As soon as they reached their floor, Alex stepped out.

They walked down the long, long hallway in silence, Strand just slightly behind Alex. It was so quiet he could hear her breathe. As he would for the rest of the night. 

They reached the hotel room door and Alex had her key card out already. Strand had only a second to feel thankful for her preparedness, though, because she held it up between them, halting him.

“Dr. Strand,” she said, looking at the card, not him. “I... I just wanted to say. To, um, warn you. I’m... I’m a pretty light sleeper. And I move around.” She finally looked up at him, and her eyes were full of apprehension. “A lot.”

“I snore,” Strand said, trying to control his heartbeat. They were standing so close together.

“I also might... talk in my sleep,” she said, and the apprehension in her eyes turned into real fear.

“I definitely talk in my sleep,” Strand said. Why did she look so scared? “I was once told—in this very room, I was told that I... that I sometimes I sing in my sleep.”

Alex laughed, a huff that severed their eye contact. “Okay,” she said.

“Maybe we’ll have a conversation in our sleep,” Strand said as she put in the key card. She laughed softly again. The light blinked red, and she put the card in a second time. Her hands, Strand saw, were shaking. It blinked red. He wanted to reach over and help, but his hands were shaking too. He didn’t know what Alex was so worried about—perhaps the creepy hotel. Maybe she thought there were assassins waiting inside. His nerves were for a far simpler reason—one locked up behind another door.

The third attempt was met with a green light, and the lock clicked open. Alex, with a final glance in his direction, opened the door.

She turned on the light, and no assassins jumped out. Strand heard a tiny sigh and felt a bit of relief himself. Maybe he was just empathizing with Alex’s anxiety. Maybe it was going to be okay.

Alex insisted he get ready first, and Strand, exhausted and strung-out, did not argue. He brushed his teeth, evaluated his five o’clock shadow (acceptable), then splashed his face with cold water for almost a whole minute.

 _Get a hold of yourself, Strand,_ he thought, glaring at his reflection. _It’s going to be fine._ The whirlpool of apprehension and excitement in his stomach begged to differ.

When he came out, Alex was on her laptop, in her pajamas. A wave of warm affection washed over him, seeing her like this—wearing a huge, faded Windows ‘98 t-shirt and flannel shorts, her hair in a loose ponytail, what little makeup she usually wore, gone. Strand cleared his throat awkwardly.

“All set,” he managed.

Alex looked up at him and smiled. “Great. Thanks.”

She stood and crossed the room.

“I like the no-glasses look,” she said as she walked past. Strand touched the bridge of his nose—he’d forgotten, of course—he’d taken off his glasses. She probably had never seen him without them.  _She liked it?_

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. Strand stood there for another moment, staring down at the bed. He was trying to wrap his mind around it, the bed, the space they would soon be sharing, but, as ever, did not succeed. With a sigh, Strand accepted his fate, stepping off the edge into that whirlpool of apprehension and happiness. He got in bed.

* * *

Fifteen minutes passed. What was going on? Was she taking a shower? But he didn’t hear water? _Does it matter?_ he thought. _Calm the hell down._

Strand propped himself awkwardly up on his elbow and looked at the clock. 10:54.

“Are you almost done?” he said loudly.

“You can just turn out the light,” Alex answered from the bathroom. “I don’t want to keep you up.”

Strand knew he wasn’t going to fall asleep waiting like this. His heart was fluttering like a teenager with a crush. He had avoided thinking about this all afternoon and evening for a reason. It was embarrassing as hell.

“I don’t mind,” he called back. “I’m just asking.”

“Really, it’s fine,” said Alex.

Strand hesitated. Part of him wanted to pass out before she got back, just sever the awkwardness by disappearing into sleep. But the other part of him, the part locked up behind that door, that got lost in her smile and her voice and... that part of him wanted to stay awake. Not because anything would happen. Just to stay awake. To be around her.

He rolled over and turned out the light.

When the bathroom door opened softly a few minutes later, Alex had turned off the bathroom light—to avoid waking Strand, presumably, but he was nowhere near sleep. He lay on his side, facing away, trying to control his breathing. _In, and out. In, and out._

He didn’t hear her feet approach but he suddenly felt the covers lift and felt the bed sink and rise. His lungs felt full of water.

 _Alex_.

He held his breath. She lay down next to him, not close enough to feel, but close enough to hear. She let out a long, controlled sigh. She breathed in again, then slowly, slowly, out. Strand listened, and realized she was doing a breathing exercise. In through the nose, and out through the mouth. _(Don’t think about her mouth.)_ Was she still nervous? Or was this just how she relaxed before sleeping?

He felt like a voyeur—a listening voyeur, an _écouteur?_ It was weird of him to pretend he was asleep, he decided. Strand cleared his throat softly. The steady breathing beside him stopped.

“Strand?”

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’m awake,” he said aloud.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s fine,” he answered. He still didn’t feel brave enough to roll over. “I wasn’t asleep.”

“No?”

“No.”

There was a pause. He listened to her breathing—normal, not controlled.

“Were you thinking about Coralee?” she asked quietly.

Strand looked at the window, glowing with dim moonlight.

“No,” he said.

“Really?” she said.

“Really,” he said.

Another pause.

“But...”

“I know you think I’m not being honest,” he said, and for some reason, now he rolled over, onto his back. “But I am. I wasn’t thinking about her.”

Alex was silent. From her breathing, Strand could tell she was lying on her back too.

“It’s been twenty years, Alex,” Strand said. “The more time passes, the further someone gets from you. The more the memories fade. I might be getting close— _we_ might be getting close to finding her again, maybe, but... the Coralee I knew, is gone. Whether she changed a lot, or a little, she is not the same person. Nor am I. And I’ve had twenty years to come to terms with that.”

Alex breathed. In, and out.

“Do I want to find her? Of course. But I don’t have any illusions about what that means. Whatever circumstances caused her to... disappear... are not gone. If anything, they’re probably more convoluted than ever." Strand swallowed. "And it... it won’t ever be...”

There was a quiet fabric sound as Alex shifted. Then Strand felt something—a hand, sliding into his.

He suddenly felt a lump in his throat. _God._

Alex squeezed his hand gently.

“A... Alex.”  

He said it as quietly as he could above a whisper, but his voice still broke.

“I know,” she said, squeezing again. “It’s okay.”

Strand squeezed his eyes shut. He breathed—in and out, in and out—until the lump in his throat was gone. And then he stayed like that, still, eyes closed, his hand in Alex’s, for a few more moments. Her breathing was slow and steady, but he knew (somehow) that she was still awake.

“Thank you, Alex,” he said, quietly.

“For what?” she said.

“I’m... glad I didn’t have to come back here alone.”

Alex exhaled, and squeezed his hand just slightly. “Of course, Richard.” She let go.

Strand wanted to roll over and look her in the eye, but he didn’t think he had the guts.

“You should get some sleep,” Alex said. “Long trip home tomorrow.”

“Yes,” said Strand. “So should you.”

A humorless huff of laughter came from the pillow next to him. “Well, I’ll try.”

Strand frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Oh—nothing.”

“Are you uncomfortable?” he said, finally rolling over. He hiked himself up on his elbow to mediate the intimacy. “Because I can sleep on the fl—”

“No, no, it’s not...” Alex, still on her back, glanced at him, then away. She looked at the ceiling, seemingly to gather herself. “I don’t really... sleep. Anymore.”

Strand stared at her. “What?”

“I have insomnia,” she said with an annoyed sigh. “I didn’t want to make you feel, I don’t know, weird, about the whole—” she waved a hand impatiently, “—bed-sharing, thing, but, I don’t sleep much anymore.”

“How long?” Strand demanded.

“A... a few months,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. Strand felt like a door had been opened—of _course_ , Alex’s erratic behavior, her permanent exhaustion—he had known she was overworked, but he hadn’t known it was _this_ bad.

But he should have known. He should have asked.

“Alex,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not important,” she sighed, looking away.

“Of c _ourse_ it’s important,” he said.

“I’m the reporter, not the subject,” she said. “It’s not important. It’s unprofessional, like you said downstairs.”

“It’s not unprofessional,” Strand answered. “Professionalism doesn’t even come into it. Your health is the primary concern, _of course._ Alex, do you think I care more about the reporter-subject relationship than your well-being? Do you think I _only_ want to be your subject?”

Alex was staring at him, her mouth slightly open. “It wasn’t that, I just...” Alex’s mouth twisted. “I guess I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Well, you failed,” he said, and she laughed.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Strand said in a low voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t... project the impression that I cared about you as a person. I’m sorry that wasn’t... obvious.”

“Richard,” Alex said, her eyes searching his. “I know you care.”

He could hardly stand it when she said his name like that. It pricked him like a static shock, every time.

He stared down at her, from where he was propped on his elbow. She stared back. The dim moonlight coming through the curtains was the only light, but Strand’s eyes had long adjusted. She was like a statue, smooth and stony in the blue-gray light. Just... beautiful.

Everything he felt for her rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down. It was not the time. It never would be.

“Let me help,” he said instead.

“Help?” she said.

“Help you sleep.”

She smiled. “There’s not much to do. I can fall asleep pretty well—it’s _staying_ asleep that I have difficulty with.”

“I snore,” Strand said again. “Loud. Do you need me to sleep somewhere else?”

“It’s not noise,” she said, smiling appreciatively and patting his arm. “It’s dreams. There’s nothing you can do... but thank you.”

Strand nodded, his heart sinking. Dreams. He knew all about bad dreams. And nothing about fixing them.

“Well...” He shifted, lying down on his side, and sighed. Alex rolled over too, facing him. “What then?”

“Good night, Richard,” she said, with a tiny smile.

Strand swallowed. He didn’t want to go to sleep—not only did it seem unfair, when she would hardly sleep, but he didn’t want... to leave her.

His hand moved before he could think about whether it was a good idea. Gently, he brushed a strand of hair from her temple. Alex closed her eyes, smiling sadly.

“Good night, Alex,” he said softly.

He let his hand brush her shoulder as he pulled it back to his hemisphere of the bed. Then, Strand rolled over and closed his eyes. He listened as Alex’s breathing slowed, evened out, and sank into sleep.

Only then did he roll over—not to face her, just on his back. Next to him, she snored softly. Strand sighed and closed his eyes.

* * *

He didn’t know how much time passed, but Strand woke up in the dark. At first he didn’t know why. Then he heard a muffled sound—a whimper. Blinking, he rolled over.

Alex. She was curled up in a ball next to him, her head close to his ribcage, eyes squeezed shut, whimpering. She had kicked the quilt off and was gripping the sheets tight. She whimpered again, then squeaked, yanking the sheet. Strand stared in horror as she twisted, curling tighter on herself. The top of her head bumped his side. He flinched.

“No...” she muttered. “No... not... please...”

Her body jerked suddenly and thrashed out. Her balled fist hit Strand right in the chest, and he gasped, more from surprise than pain.

“No!” she cried. “Maddy!”

Strand’s heart twisted. _Every night... for months..._

“No!” Her fist flew out again, striking his chest, but this time he caught it. He held onto her hand, pressing it against his chest. He didn’t know why. Instinct more than anything.

Alex’s arm relaxed.

“Alex,” he said, his voice hoarse with sleep. “Alex, it’s okay.”

Alex, on her back, gave a shuddering sigh. Her face, screwed up in fear and distress, loosened.

Strand gripped her hand, pressed against his chest. His gut said to do more, to wrap his arms around her, but it seemed wrong. He wanted to, but... this was enough.

She frowned, and her lips moved again. The dream was still going on. He squeezed her closed fist, and whispered her name.

“Alex,” he said.

Her face twitched. Was his voice... helping? Strand opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he opened it again.

“Alex... please don’t worry. You’re safe. Maddy is dead, but you’re safe. And we’re going to find the people who killed her, and... and we’re going to stop them.”

He felt stupid saying it, but she couldn’t hear, at least, not consciously. And whether it was his voice or coincidence, she seemed to be relaxing. He kept going.

“And I,” he said. “I...” He sighed. “Alex.”

Her frown was fading. Her fist was loosening.

“I meant what I said, earlier. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’ve... been here. I could never have done all this alone, never.”

He sighed again.

“And truth be told, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be doing it at all.” Did that make sense? Not really— “It’s... I mean. I don’t know what this... shadow organization would have been doing, if I had never joined your podcast; they would probably still be after me, I just mean...” He trailed off. “Your show... I remember, the first time I visited you in Seattle, you asked why I was willing to be part of your show. I spun some long-winded answer about the culture of skepticism, didn’t I? I can’t believe you bought that,” he said, with an almost-laugh. “You definitely needed a dose of skepticism.” He shook his head. “No, it... it had nothing to do with that.”

Strand looked from Alex, whose face was almost totally relaxed now, back to the ceiling. The door inside him was cracking open.

“You must know,” he said, half to himself. “You must know it was you.”

Steadily, she breathed next to him.

“I just wanted to work with you,” he said to the ceiling. “Your spirit, your persistence, your empathy, your... understanding, and genuine interest in everyone and their experiences, and your... your sense of humor, your smile. As soon as you hung up on me, I knew it was a mistake. But it took me days to work up the courage to call back,” he said, almost laughing. Then he sighed. “But... it doesn’t matter. Maybe, when this is all over... but. Who knows.”

He looked back at her. Her body had relaxed, and her breathing was normal again. In, and out. Inside him, the unlocked door was swinging shut again.

He rolled over to look at the time. 2:06. And she was still asleep. That was good, right? Maybe she had already woken up, while he was out. Maybe he wasn’t helping at all, maybe she would have stayed asleep this time, even if he hadn’t been there.

Didn’t matter. Strand clasped her hand with one of his, and slipped his other hand between her fingers and her palm.

“Good night, Alex,” he murmured. “Sleep well.”

Alex was curled on her side, her outstretched hand resting on his chest. Strand lay on his back, holding her hand in both of his. He drifted off like that.

* * *

When the sunlight woke Alex, she was alone.

She blinked awake slowly. For a moment, she was so disoriented she didn’t know what she didn’t know. Where... where was she? Was she alone? Was she supposed to be? She sat up slowly, looking at the window.

There was sunlight. It was... it was actually morning.

She didn’t believe it. Alex sat up fully, coming back to herself now. She looked down at herself. She had... slept! She hadn’t woken up, not once! Not that she could remember. Was it possible? She stared at her hands, not knowing why. She thought of Strand. Where was he?

She swung her legs down, and stood, dizzy for a moment. She blinked. She hadn’t slept that much for _months._ And she was almost awake enough to get excited about it.

She wobbled to the bathroom—passing the clock, which said 8:41—and knocked on the closed door. “Dr. Strand?”

No answer. She opened it.

Alex splashed herself with water—she felt groggy, but not in her usual way. She almost wanted to get back in bed. In her head, she heard Strand’s voice say, “There are no such things as miracles, Alex.” She smiled, unable to meet her own gaze in the mirror. That was not quite true.

The door of the room clicked quietly open and closed again. She heard footsteps pass, then halt.

“Alex?”

She spit out toothpaste.

“In here!”

She rinsed her mouth and wiped it, then stuck her head out the door. Strand was sitting at the desk, putting sugar in a to-go cup of coffee. When he saw her, he stood up.

“Alex,” he said. He was dressed, wearing a sweater and his glasses again—of course he was wearing his glasses again. But the memory of de-spectacled Strand still made her smile.

“Good morning,” she said, beaming.

“Did you... sleep well?” He winced at his own words and started to say, “I mean—”

“Actually, I did,” she said, stepping out of the bathroom and leaning against the wall and folding her arms. “Really well. I don’t remember waking up, like, at all. This is the first time in _months_.”

Strand raised his eyebrows, looking impressed.

“Not the last, I hope,” he said.

“I hope not. I don’t know what helped,” she said. “But if this hotel is haunted, it’s haunted by a benevolent spirit.”

Strand laughed.

“Haunted or not, we should get going,” he said.

“Haunted _or_ not?” Alex repeated, grinning. “Was that a confession of possible paranormal activity, Dr. Strand?”

“A confession? From me?” he said. “Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! i'm on tumblr @ davidfosterwallaceandgromit.tumblr.com , and i have a stragan mix on 8tracks, 8tracks.com/musabelle42/sacred-geometry


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